It took me a while to get up to speed with REM. I had, in the way of dogmatic and foolish adolescence, dismissed them as "hippies". After all, they had long hair. They wore faintly foppish shirts. They appeared to be "deep". My mind was changed by actually hearing them, at which point I realised the preconceptions I'd built up based on seeing adverts in the press and on the fact that John Peel never played them were way, way wide of the mark.

By the time Fables of the Reconstruction (or, as the vinyl edition of the album suggested it was called, Fables of the Reconstruction of the Fables) came out I was pumped and primed, ready to immerse myself in this backwoods southern fairytale-world they created through music and lyrics. And – the biggest endorsement a schoolkid with limited money could offer – I bought tickets for the first of REM's shows at Hammersmith Palais in October 1985 (it was half-term, and I trekked up to London to see the Long Ryders at the same venue, that same week).

If memory serves, the lights were set up at the side of the stage, rather than above, flickering across the band, shedding light and casting shadow in equal measure. It was the first time I recall thinking that whoever did the lighting had done an amazing job. Peter Buck whirled around the stage, throwing shapes unashamedly. I was used to that from the metal bands I'd seen, but at the indie gigs I'd been to, the musicians tended towards glum stillness, so seeing an alternative band put on an actual show was something of a revelation.

The star, of course, was Michael Stipe. His hair was cropped and dyed blond. Pinned to his jacket were a selection of wristwatches. And written backwards across his forehead was the word "DOG". These days I might be inclined to roll my eyes. At 16, I thought he was a riddle wrapped inside an enigma all bundled up in mystery, which was surely what I was supposed to think.

There they were: the rock'n'roller, the enigma, the two who looked like teaching assistants, and those lights. And to open, railroad noises through the PA, a pall of feedback, then three descending notes, unresolved and repeated. A little scratchy riff, again ending on an unresolved chord. Then into the strangest, uneasiest song REM had to date recorded, with Stipe flashing in and out of focus as the lights flickered around the band.

Falling in love with a group is usually a gradual process: you hear, you like, you hear more, you listen closely, you start to love. A few times it happens in an instant: hearing This Charming Man on Radio 1's Roundtable made me lose my heart to the Smiths in an instant; five years ago, the first Hold Steady show I saw was revelatory, convincing me I could still fall for a band with the vivid obsession of a teenager. Feeling Gravity's Pull at the Hammersmith Palais in October 1985 was one of those moments – a transporting experience, a lesson that music didn't have to reflect my life to move me: that the greatest of bands could be as opaque as they wished and still speak clearly.